


No Other Name

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Canon, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Future Fic, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: What bargains he’s made with himself, Sansa doesn’t know, but it gives her permission nonetheless.





	No Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt of: Robb/Sansa, dirty talk

“Skinny girl,” Robb says, the fond words hushed in the dark quiet of her room with only embers to light them both.

He’d always called her skinny girl, even when she grew up and wasn’t quite skinny any more. “Skinny like a colt,” he’d say, flipping the end of her braid against her cheek and smiling at her the way Sansa imagines all brothers smile at their little sisters. She has no braid for him to flip against her cheek now – her hair is always divided and coiled and pinned now, the way she’s heard Southron ladies do – and he is not smiling at her as a brother does a sister. He is smiling at her a different way entirely, but he still calls her skinny girl, says “Such a fat little cunny for a skinny girl,” as he slides his fingers easily, almost casually, over, into, and inside her. She’s wet for him, utterly soaking, and has been since he gave her a look after dinner and she’d known he’d sneak into her room after all were asleep.

She’d been as naked as her nameday when he came, standing on the cold stone floor with one bare foot over the other, shivering and dimpled with gooseflesh but so, so hot inside, hotter than she’d ever known she could feel before they’d started this between them. It’s wrong, she knows that full well. She’s too young, she knows that even better, but she feels far older than her ten and six years when her brother is touching her not as he would a sister, but as he would a lady, as he would a wife. Or as he would one of the whores in Wintertown. Knowing he may have learned all the things he does to her from a fallen woman should make it worse. It should make it feel dirty and bad and wrong. It only makes Sansa feel dirty and bad and good, as old and as wise as the stars above, as fiery and strong as the sun. It only makes her _want_.

“So wet for me,” he says on a grin, arch and smug as he so often is with her. His other hand doesn’t touch her; it rests easily on his belt, as if he’s discussing falconry with Jory or training with Theon, rather than curling two fingers inside his little sister’s cunt and pushing his thumb at the sensitive knot above to make her gasp the way he knows she will. “So wet and hot and aching for my mouth, aren’t you? Do you want me to tongue your cunt again, skinny girl?”

“Robb,” she gasps. Her hands gripping his wrist as she tries to rub his hand against her are weak and ineffectual, she wants him so much. It’s all she thinks about, his mouth on her, all she’s ever thought about since the first time he surrendered fully to their wicked play with a tortured groan and buried his face between her thighs to wring surprised cries and moans of pleasure from her lips. She hadn’t known such a thing was done. She hadn’t known a body could feel such a way. She hadn’t known he wanted, the way she did, the way she hated herself for doing every time they kissed and groped and recoiled in anguish, knowing she shouldn’t but urgently, desperately wanting more.

“Yes, you do, don’t you? It’s all you want, my face in your hot, greedy little cunt.” Robb has cast all anguish aside. What bargains he’s made with himself, Sansa doesn’t know, but it gives her permission nonetheless. If guilt torments him, he gives no sign, and it has freed Sansa to push hers down, to bury it under needy compulsion. He is her brother, after all, one day to be lord of Winterfell. If she is not safe with him, how could she ever be safe? So what they do is wrong, then, but in a way it is also right, the way her favorite desserts can be both sweet and tart.

The way her body can clench with pleasure so keen it’s painful.

“I wanted to crawl under the table at supper,” he tells her, crooking his fingers and pushing his thumb up against the little hood to touch the desperately sensitive flesh beneath. “I watched you licking your spoon and wanted to push my face between your thighs right there and lap you up like you were my dessert.”

Sansa moans, her knees trembling. She moves her hands from his wrists to his shoulders, her fingers twisting so tightly in the seams of his shirt that she thinks they might pop from the pressure. He’s as fully dressed as he was when he sat across the table from her and watched her with hot eyes. Now that she knows he was imagining supping on her like she supped on her meal, she’ll never be able to sit through dinner again without squirming in need.

“I knew your hot, fat, wet little cunny would taste better than anything cooks could make.” Robb shifts closer. His nose skates up her cheek and she feels his tongue flick snake-like, in the soft, sensitive hollow behind her ear. “I knew you’d be sweeter than any sweet.”

“Better than lemoncakes?” she manages to ask with a little laugh. Once she’d thought there could be nothing better than lemoncakes, and no more sinfully delicious feeling than eating as many as she could steal all at once, until her belly ached and there were none left over for anyone else.

“So much better,” he says. His voice is like velvet. Sansa wants to rub herself all over him like a cat in heat. She wants to spread herself wide and do unspeakable things. She wants her brother to love her and touch her and never let her go. “Let me show you, San.”

The furs over the bed are a momentary sensation on her hips and back and bum, and then the scrape of his beard up her thigh pushes all else from her mind, the hot wash of his breath over her quim makes her shatter, and the urgent press of her tongue assembles her again. She comes in an instant, and is there at the precipice again in mere heartbeats, her body desperate for him. He is just as desperate, his arch teasing gone, his words dried up, only the feeling of his appreciative moans vibrating through her as he licks and sucks and laps like a man possessed.

Sansa twines her fingers in his hair. She pushes her knees wide until they touch the furs on either side of her, and hooks one ankle around his neck to pull him closer, as if she could pull him inside her and feel this filthy, this wild, this glorious all the time. “Robb,” she says, coming again, long and sweet and rippling. She had no name for him, the way he had for her when they were young. She has no gift with wicked words the way he does. So all she says is his name, but the way he smiles against her most intimate places tells her he knows all that his name means on her tongue. It tells her that her brother loves her.


End file.
